Ashwick squats at the crossroads like a town that never decided whether to grow up: three inns, a smithy, a shuttered wool stall, and a garrison post with a flagpole that has seen better weather. Wren clanks through the main street with her head up and visor down and does not look at her boots. The garrison sergeant has a ledger, which is, in Wren's estimation, worse than a pike. A man with a pike wants to decide one thing. A man with a ledger wants to decide everything. "Name, business, origin of the armor." She produces the parchment. He reads it twice — they always read it twice — and sets it down with two deliberate fingers. "Ember of Aldermere." He says it the way people say things they hope will end a conversation. "That road goes into the Thornwood. There's a keeper's station on the old track — day's walk in, if the path holds. I can requisition an escort, but that's two days minimum." He glances at the harvest moon caught behind afternoon cloud. "I don't imagine you have two days."